Beth Woodburn

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Title: Beth Woodburn

Author: Maud Petitt

Release Date: July 22, 2005 [EBook #16343]

Language: English

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BETH WOODBURN.

BY

MAUD PETITT.

TORONTO:

WILLIAM BRIGGS,

29-33 Richmond Street West.

Montreal: C.W. COATES.      Halifax: S.F. HUESTIS.

1897.

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven, by William Briggs, at the Department of Agriculture.

To my mother

THIS MY FIRST BOOK

IS LOVINGLY

DEDICATED.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

Beth at Eighteen

CHAPTER II.

A Dream of Life

CHAPTER III.

Whither, Beth?

CHAPTER IV.

Marie

CHAPTER V.

For I Love You, Beth

CHAPTER VI.

For I Love You, Beth

CHAPTER VII.

'Varsity

CHAPTER VIII.

Ended

CHAPTER IX.

The Heavenly Canaan

CHAPTER X.

Death

CHAPTER XI.

Love

CHAPTER XII.

Farewell

BETH WOODBURN.

CHAPTER I.

BETH AT EIGHTEEN.

In the good old county of Norfolk, close to the shore of Lake Erie, lies the pretty village of Briarsfield. A village I call it, though in truth it has now advanced almost to the size and dignity of a town. Here, on the brow of the hill to the north of the village (rather a retired spot, one would say, for so busy a man), at the time of which my story treats, stood the residence of Dr. Woodburn.

It was a long, old-fashioned rough-cast house facing the east, with great wide windows on each side of the door and a veranda all the way across the front. The big lawn was quite uneven, and broken here and there by birch trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes, all in bloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home-like old place. The view to the south showed, over the village roofs on the hill-side, the blue of Lake Erie outlined against the sky, while to the north stretched the open, undulating country, so often seen in Western Ontario.

One warm June afternoon Beth, the doctor's only daughter, was lounging in an attitude more careless than graceful under a birch tree. She, her father and Mrs. Margin, the housekeeper—familiarly known as Aunt Prudence—formed the whole household. Beth was a little above the average height, a girlish figure, with a trifle of that awkwardness one sometimes meets in an immature girl of eighteen; a face, not what most people would call pretty, but still having a fair share of beauty. Her features were, perhaps, a little too strongly outlined, but the brow was fair as a lily, and from it the great mass of dark hair was drawn back in a pleasing way. But her eyes—those earnest, grey eyes—were the most impressive of all in her unusually impressive face. They were such searching eyes, as though she had stood on the brink scanning the very Infinite, and yet with a certain baffled look in them as of one who had gazed far out, but failed to pierce the gloom—a beaten, longing look. But a careless observer might have dwelt longer on the affectionate expression about her lips—a half-childish, half-womanly tenderness.

Beth was in one of her dreamy moods that afternoon. She was gazing away towards the north, her favorite view. She sometimes said it was prettier than the lake view. The hill on which their house stood sloped abruptly down, and a meadow, pink with clover, stretched far away to rise again in a smaller hill skirted with a bluish line of pines. There was a single cottage on the opposite side of the meadow, with white blinds and a row of sun-flowers along the wall; but Beth was not absorbed in the view, and gave no heed to the book beside her. She was dreaming. She had just been reading the life of George Eliot, her favorite author, and the book lay open at her picture. She had begun to love George Eliot like a personal friend; she was her ideal, her model, for Beth had some repute as a literary character in Briarsfield. Not a teacher in the village school but had marked her strong literary powers, and she was not at all slow to believe all the hopeful compliments paid her. From a child her stories had filled columns in the Briarsfield Echo, and now she was eighteen she told herself she was ready to reach out into the great literary world—a nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would be famous—Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfield. She was sure of it. She would write novels; oh, such grand novels! She would drink from the very depths of nature and human life. The stars, the daisies, sunsets, rippling waters, love and sorrow, and all the infinite chords that vibrate in the human soul—she would weave them all with warp of gold. Oh, the world would see what was in her soul! She would be the bright particular star of Canadian literature; and then wealth would flow in, too, and she would fix up the old home. Dear old daddy should retire and have everything he wanted: and Aunt Prudence, on sweeping days, wouldn't mind moving the trash, as she called her manuscripts. Daddy wouldn't make her go to bed at ten o'clock then; she would write all night if she choose; she would have a little room on purpose, and visitors at Briarsfield would pass by the old rough-cast house and point it out as Beth Woodburn's home, and—well, this is enough for a sample of Beth's daydreams. They were very exaggerated, perhaps, and a little selfish, too; but she was not a fully-developed woman yet, and the years were to bring sweeter fruit. She had, undoubtedly, the soul of genius, but genius takes years to unfold itself.

Then a soft expression crossed the face of the dreamer. She leaned back, her eyes closed and a light smile played about her lips. She was thinking of one who had encouraged her so earnestly—a tall, slender youth, with light curly hair, blue eyes and a fair, almost girlish, face—too fair and delicate for the ideal of most girls: but Beth admired its paleness and delicate features, and Clarence Mayfair had come to be often in her thoughts. She remembered quite well when the Mayfairs had moved into the neighborhood and taken possession of the fine old manor beside the lake, and she had become friends with the only daughter, Edith, at school, and then with Clarence. Clarence wrote such pretty little poems, too. This had been the foundation of their friendship, and, since their tastes and ambitions were so much alike, what if—

Her eyes grew brighter, and she almost fancied he was looking down into her face. Oh, those eyes—hush, maiden heart, be still. She smiled at the white cloud drifting westward—a little boat-shaped cloud, with two white figures in it, sailing in the summer blue. The breeze ruffled her dark hair. There fell a long shadow on the grass beside her.

Clarence—Mr. Mayfair! I didn't see you coming. When did you get home?

Last night. I stayed in Toronto till the report of our 'exams' came out.

I see you have been successful, she replied. Allow me to congratulate you.

Thank you. I hear you are coming to 'Varsity this fall, Miss Woodburn. Don't you think it quite an undertaking? I'm sure I wish you joy of the hard work.

Why, I hope you are not wearying of your course in the middle of it, Mr. Mayfair. It is only two years till you will have your B.A.

Two years' hard work, though; and, to tell the truth, a B.A. has lost its charms for me. I long to devote my life more fully to literature. That is my first ambition, you know, and I seem to be wasting so much time.

You can hardly call time spent that way wasted, she answered. You will write all the better for it by and by.

Then they plunged into one of their old-time literary talks of authors and books and ambitions. Beth loved these talks. There was no one else in Briarsfield she could discuss these matters with like Clarence. She was noticing meanwhile how much paler he looked than when she saw him last, but she admired him all the more. There are some women who love a man all the more for being delicate. It gives them better opportunities to display their womanly tenderness. Beth was one of these.

By the way, I mustn't forget my errand, Clarence exclaimed after a long chat.

He handed her a dainty little note, an invitation to tea from his sister Edith. Beth accepted with pleasure. She blushed as he pressed her hand in farewell, and their eyes met. That look and touch of his went very deep—deeper than they should have gone, perhaps; but the years will tell their tale. She watched him going down the hill-side in the afternoon sunshine, then fell to dreaming again. What if, after all, she should not always stay alone with daddy? If someone else should come—And she began to picture another study where she should not have to write alone, but there should be two desks by the broad windows looking out on the lake, and somebody should—

Beth! Beth! come and set the tea-table. My hands is full with them cherries.

Beth's dream was a little rudely broken by Mrs. Martin's voice, but she complacently rose and went into the house.

Mrs. Martin was a small grey-haired woman, very old-fashioned; a prim, good old soul, a little sharp-tongued, a relic of bygone days of Canadian life. She had been Dr. Woodburn's housekeeper ever since Beth could remember, and they had always called her Aunt Prudence.

What did that gander-shanks of a Mayfair want? asked the old lady with a funny smile, as Beth was bustling about.

"Oh, just come to bring an invitation